


Book I: Solstice

by birdsandivory



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deity!Allura, Drama & Romance, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Fantasy, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Fluff and Angst, Human!Lance, Hunk and Lance are best friends!, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Personification of Winter - Shiro, This was so much fun, shance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-09-26 23:32:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17151125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory
Summary: “Sureyou did. And you made it snow a week before winter was supposed to be here.”“I did.” He presses, lifting a gloved right hand that opposes his bare left, curling it into a fist and then undoing the motion to reveal a flurry of dancing snowflakes. It’s a magic he’s only seen in storybooks that widens his eyes and slackens his jaw. Lance doesn’t know what to say - he’s stricken, confused - and he wonders if he had too much of the spiked hot cocoa he shared with his family the day prior.Lance laughs incredulously. “So… you’re the cold?”The way he looks at him then has his heart beating like a race across hot sand in the summer sun.“I am all of winter.”Lance has witnessed magic with his own two eyes, has watched the creation of snow storms formed by a single gloved hand. And it doesn't matter if no one else believes him, if they just say it's all in his head:He knows that Takashi Shirogane, winter himself, is real.





	Book I: Solstice

**Author's Note:**

> I'm here with more Shance, and a pretty big guy, too! This one is for @/mysteriousdogduo over on Tumblr! She's my lovely Secret Santa and I'm more than happy to gift this fiction to her. <3 
> 
> I hope you guys like this; I got super carried away and couldn't help just how LONG this became!!! I might write more fictions in this universe. We'll see! 
> 
> Merry Christmas!
> 
> 02.10.2019 - Made some minor edits!

_"And I'll use you as a focal point,_

_So I don't lose sight of what I want."_

_\- I Found, Amber Run_

 

* * *

 

 _He feels so_ **_cold._ **

_There are trees for miles around encircling him in a snowy clearing, wide and empty, everything looking exactly the same for miles out. There’s no sign of life, not a burrowing hare or curious deer to keep him company, and he doesn’t know where his family is. He and Veronica had been playing in the forest beyond the frozen lake, but now, she’s nowhere to be found — and he’s never felt more afraid in his life._

_“Are you out here alone?”_

_Until a boy appears before him._

_A tiny hand reaches out and Lance looks up, his round blue eyes brimmed with tears, body shivering in the snow — but he’s thankful, he thinks, because maybe the boy wants to rescue him like the knights from all the storybooks his father has ever read before bed at night. His savior’s hair is a stark white and he only seems slightly older than Lance himself, eyes staring down at him in wonder, palm outstretched — wanting to help pick him up off of the ground. And suffering in damp clothes, the lost is scared, but he takes the boy’s hand and is gently lifted back onto his feet — pale fingers dusting flakes off of his coat for him._

_He’s given a gentle smile, and Lance feels warm as he hums, “are you lost?”_

_“I can’t find my sister,” he admits softly, the very thought nearly bringing him to tears again. The taller of them is quick to coo his worries away, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, and his fears lessen just a little as he’s easily swayed by kind words._

_“I know every inch of this snowy forest. I’ll find her and take you back.”_

_And he’s unsure as to why, but it’s so easy to believe the other; his mother has told him on countless occasions not to speak to strangers, but the boy seems friendly and Lance just wants to go home, and maybe that’s worth a shot. So, he ignores the fear still tugging at his gut, pressing and molding his fingers covered in wool together like they’ll protect him so long as he holds them before his body._

_“Okay.”_

_The boy smiles as he steps away, walking over to one of the many frosted trees around the clearing they’re in, touching it gently with his hand. Lance doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to explain what it’s like, a soft glow emitting from a palm slightly bigger than his own is the closest to magic he’s ever seen. White lashes flutter as dark eyes close, and Lance is dying to ask about what’s happening, but he keeps his mouth shut — something tells him it wouldn’t be right to speak._

_It’s over before long, and the boy steps away, returning to him with a bright smile and a hand for him to hold. “I found her.”_

_Being as scared as he is, he believes him, threading chubby fingers together as he’s taken through the twists and turns of the forest. He shifts ever closer at the sight of every single gnarly branch, holding fast at the slippery squelch of snow. The walk seems long and he’s all too afraid that they’re never going to reach his sister, but soon, the trees part and there’s a light at the edge of the forest._

_He spots Veronica, calling his name, and he pulls away from the hand in his — running over to his older sibling and in a giddy rush, attaching himself to her shaking form._

_“Lance!”_

_Eyes welling with tears, he finally cries his fears into her chest, relaxing only when she kisses his head, and he thinks he would have found it gross if he wasn’t so happy to see her._

_“I wanna go home, Veronica. I don’t want to play here anymore.”_

_He’s relieved when she sighs heavily, nodding. “Me neither.”_

_She takes his hand and only then is he reminded of his savior, taking a moment to look back at the boy who can do magic. When his eyes fall to the forest, however, he sees no one there._

_Later that night, he tells Veronica and his siblings all about it, but they don’t believe him. Even his mother and father laugh kindly at the musings of an eight-year-old boy, petting his head and telling him that if magic were real, it wouldn’t be hidden away in a forest. Lance stops talking about it after a while, and he goes to sleep at night bitter, because he was not lucky enough to find his sister on his own — he was_ **_saved._ **

_He doesn’t say it out loud to anyone, but he knows the boy is real._

_It’s only a few days after getting separated from his sister that he decides to go back to the forest, passing the lake with only the slightest of apprehensions, arms full of burnt Christmas cookies his brother tried to make with little success. He uses them as a marker trail, to lead him back if he gets lost and can’t find what he’s looking for._

**_Who_ ** _he’s looking for._

_It takes him a few tries, and maybe the better part of an hour, for him to reach a circle of trees. Lance thinks it’s the same place, but he can barely remember, alone and crying as he was then. It’s only confirmed when he spots locks like snowflakes resting against a tree, the wind rustling bangs along a pale forehead as the boy from the other day is deep in slumber._

_Reaching out with a gloved hand, he shakes the other awake by the shoulder._

_He doesn’t expect how readily those deep hues snap open, and it startles him into gasping, unable to move until the body before him relaxes — small fists reaching up to rub at angular eyes. It takes only a second for him to notice Lance, to catch sight of the cookie trail behind him; he stands, looking his way with an unreadable expression. “What are you doing here?”_

_“My name’s Lance!” He nervously thinks that maybe he’s made a mistake, that coming back was a bad idea. He musters up his courage, though, because he can’t stop thinking about the boy — about the magic._

_The other just tilts his head at the admission of his name. “I’m —.”_

_Lance anxiously bites his lip, locking the name away in his memories, as if he can always hold onto it if he pretends it’s something to be kept in a sealed box. “I, uhm, do you wanna play with me?”_

_Everything seems better when the boy returns the question with a dazzling smile._

 

* * *

 

**DECEMBER 27th**

Blue eyes splinter open.

_What a… weird dream._

His shivering body wakes him, tired hues barely able to see in the darkness of his room, dimly lit by a single candle in one far corner of his desk. Sitting up, he’s immediately chilled by the cold, curtains blown inward by the frigid winter wind — and jumping out of his bed, he shuffles over to the window, shutting it tight.

_That’s odd. I didn’t leave it open last night for sure._

He doesn’t give himself time to think about it, because today’s the day; he’ll never have to sleep in three layers ever again.

It’s still early, upwards of 6 AM, but he’s already brushing his teeth and washing his face with the grapefruit scrub Veronica keeps buying him — preparing to step into warm clothes and pull his pre-packed luggage into his car. There’s no time for dilly-dallying, no waiting to say goodbye, he made sure he told everyone he cares about that he loves them, if just so he can have his last few hours in New York to himself.

Slipping on his boots, he packs up one last bag, going over the plan in his head while he makes sure he leaves nothing behind in his apartment.

He’s taking a one-way trip, after all.

The surf and sand of Hawaii is waiting for him, he and his best friend, Hunk, were going to take it all in one good time since they’ve long since graduated. They were tired of the whole of New York, the unpleasant seasons, the lack of the sun and the ocean’s waves. They’re both meant for the water, for sandy beaches and the blaze of warm rays kissing their skin. It’s why they were going to Oahu, going to spend time with Hunk’s family and revel in the salty shores before Lance left his friend with a heavy heart and flew up to California — taking up permanent residence while he attends university for dance.

His own family understands, they always have, and pulling his bag behind him — he’s never felt so ready for anything in his life.

Lance’s car is heavy with suitcases, but he claimed long ago that he’d only take what he needed; he just so happens to need a lot. The rest of his things are in his old room at his parents’ house, and backing out of the driveway, he’s happy that he left behind parts of himself for them to miss.

Even if they are few.

The drive is a little longer than he expects it to be, but traffic is still much calmer than usual, a light sheen of snow barely covering the ground — though people are still cautious. Lance makes it to the airport on time, however, rushing out of his parked vehicle Veronica promised to pick up in a few hours and into the facility, quickly jogging up to the service desk. Hunk is nowhere in sight, but he doesn’t bother to call, knowing the man would be there soon enough.

Neither of them would miss this for the world.

Stepping forward, he seeks to punch his ticket, only to be stopped at the cutoff — the letterboard indicating the status of his flight glowing mockingly at him.

_DELAYED._

He finally stops to pay more attention to his surroundings, the television above several rows of chairs talk of a heavy snowstorm headed their way, and Lance lets his shoulder fall at the news. His flight would be hours late, and he so readily remembers why he wants to leave as badly as he does.

The sun would _never_ do this to him.

Lance steps away from the front desk while people scatter, choosing instead to walk over to the terminal window, watching as the light fall of morning snow becomes a howling rage obscuring his plane from view. And if there were rocks beneath his feet instead of ugly blue carpet, he’d be the first to kick at them.

“Who lets a snowstorm in on a day a guy’s supposed to go to Hawaii?” He mutters under his breath, irritated, but at this point — he swears he has the right to be.

“I did.”

Lance doesn’t expect the voice, doesn’t expect how _powerful_ it is, how it steals his breath like the frozen air traps his visible heat. And turning to the siren’s song, he lays eyes on the most handsome man he’s ever seen, out of place amongst onlookers in their winter garb — dressed in a crisp, white suit — the thin, angry scar crossing the bridge of his nose doing nothing to detract from his good looks. His eyes are dark and he seems full of secrets; he can hear his mother’s voice in the back of his mind saying: _“most men are.”_

But his missed flight comes to mind and he wants someone to blame, even if it’s a stranger’s games, whatever they may be. “Sure you did. And you made it snow a week before winter was supposed to be here.”

“I _did._ ” He presses, lifting a gloved right hand that opposes his bare left, curling it into a fist and then undoing the motion to reveal a flurry of dancing snowflakes. It’s magic he’s only seen in storybooks that widens his eyes and slackens his jaw. Lance doesn’t know what to say — he’s stricken, confused — and he wonders if he had too much of the spiked hot cocoa he shared with his family the day prior.

He’s unable to find the right questions, too afraid to ask for what he’s not sure he wants to hear, so he settles for a curious: “why?”

The man shrugs his shoulders as he leans against the window rail rather shyly, and his lips can’t decide if they want to smile or frown. “I didn’t want you to go."

> _“Mama’s gonna be mad if I’m not home for dinner.”_
> 
> _Pink lips pout and a huff escapes them. “But, I don’t_ **_want_ ** _you to go.”_

Lance can’t help but turn to the other completely, looking at the way he seems to soften as the seconds tick by, and he doesn’t deny that something feels uncannily familiar about those dark eyes behind light lashes.

“So you delayed my flight?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

It sounds stupid, as if he actually believes that some guy can hocus pocus a storm into the sky, but there’s a sensation in his chest he understands — real, truthful — but he casts it away.

“I don’t even know you,” he sucks his teeth, running a hand through his hair, “God, is this just a really crazy dream?”

The man looks hurt, but Lance just ignores it, gazing outside of the window instead of the local crazy beside him. “Don’t you remember me?”

Another strange string of syllables; they make Lance think of that very morning, the chill whispering into his room even though he was positive he’d fallen asleep with his window closed. The thought that maybe the man in front of him was responsible for that sounds silly, though, even in his head. But the way he says it is almost painful, like Lance not knowing who he is _actually_ upset him, the way his brows pinch and frown looking near genuine.

And then, he surprises Lance altogether.

“I was there when you were crying over that girl who turned you down for prom,” he says, and the memory makes the dancer go rigid, eyes splitting a fraction as they take in the snow — but he keeps forward, not biting once. However, his head snaps toward him the moment he says, “Pidge?”

How would he even _know_ that?

Not even Hunk knew...

Kicking off the terminal rail, the tall beauty seems to grow in confidence, taking a step closer; Lance doesn’t move. “I cooled your fever just last winter when you were sick. I was there when you first learned how to ice skate at the lake. _I was there._ ”

Shivering with chills he doesn’t think are caused by the AC unit, he thinks back to his dream, sifting through memories that have long since been forgotten. And as he observes just who is in front of him, all he can think of is a gentle hand picking him up off the ground, the glow of warm fingertips.

Lance laughs incredulously. “So… you’re the cold?”

The way he looks at him then has his heart beating like a race across hot sand in the summer sun.

“I am _all_ of winter.”

Lance stares at him for moments on end, mouth agape as he realizes that he’s looking at the boy from his dreams, only all grown up and tangible before him. And he swears still, that everything _might_ just be a fabrication of his sleeping mind, but in his heart he knows it’s true — the boy who saved him and brought him back to his sister, the one who kept him company every year until he one day disappeared, the imaginary friend his mother joked about until his late teens…

He’s standing right in front of him.

Everything is a little bit clearer then, and he thinks back to all of the times he’d wandered into the forest, one person on his mind no matter what. How they’d spent so much time together, how he felt like he’d finally found his first best friend—

—how the boy had _vanished_ one day, and Lance had never been able to find him again, year after year until he’d eventually forgotten everything, just like that.

He breathes.

“ _Shiro?_ ”

“Lance?”

He turns his head to the side quickly to see Hunk looking at him apprehensively, and his heart rate picks up the moment he looks back to the man in white, only to find he’s no longer there.

Swallowing, he shifts back to his best friend, smiling. “Hey, Hunk!”

“Hey… You okay? I saw you here talking to yourself. Thought you were on the phone, but.”

“Oh!” Waving a hand, he does his best to play it off. “ _Ahaha,_ it’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

Lips purse, their owner unconvinced. “Alright, well. Our flight’s delayed for a couple of weeks, so I guess we’re stuck here for a while.”

Lance just looks to the spot Shiro had been standing in once more, and a hollow ache fills his chest.

“Oh…”

_Talking to… myself?_

It's crazy, he thinks, it sounds _crazy._

But...

He doesn’t say it out loud to anyone, that he knows the man is real.

It’s not for another three days that Shiro appears to him again.

Before then, he’s really all Lance can think about, tall and beautiful and dreamy-eyed — and at the same time, mysterious, the ghost of a boy he once knew and didn’t know he’d missed.

But seeing him after so long was…

It’s something he can’t explain.

And he doesn’t want to, even when he comes to Lance on a freezing December night, right in the middle of his living room — scaring the everloving _hell_ out of him to boot. He’s almost positive that he gave the man a colossal bump on the head, too, courtesy of _‘la chancla.’_

Shiro takes it in stride, and after the initial freakout, Lance settles at the kitchen counter with two mugs of hot cocoa. The man, so ethereal and otherworldly, doesn’t touch his; he takes hold of Lance’s heart instead, reminding him of all the things he’s forgotten.

It’s a conversation he’ll never let go of, listening to Shiro talk about memories that didn’t seem real. And he can vaguely remember these moments from the past, flurries of snowflakes creating images while he couldn’t even perfect a snowman, running into the forest late at night with horribly decorated cookies and gifts he wanted the other to have. The man, a wintry personification, speaks so fondly of Lance as a child. Every story about an imaginary friend his mother would tease him about comes to life. He can’t imagine why or how he’d ever let the past slip his mind.

He asks why Shiro had left for so long, but he never receives an answer.

Instead, he takes over and tells the other about school, mundane things like people and places he enjoys, what he does for work and about his best friend — Hunk — whom Shiro is delighted to hear about. Lance is embarrassed that he’s not so interesting as a real-life _winter overlord,_ but it makes him feel warm, that the man is so interested.

And where Shiro fascinates him, he’s happy to learn that, in his own way — he fascinates the _cold himself,_ too.

Lance sighs after him when he leaves, but he sees Shiro much after that, nearly every day. He often pops up in his apartment, falls into step beside him when he’s walking home from the convenient store and offering to take a bag or two, or appears as a gentle reminder in the chilly wind. Sometimes, Lance seeks _him_ out, runs to the old forest clearing that he finds just as it was left, a perfect circle of frozen tree trunks illuminated by white snow.

He doesn’t care if there’s so much as a winter blizzard; he braves the cold, if just for an hour or two with Shiro.

 

**JANUARY 10th**

It’s the day before his rescheduled flight when Lance falls in love.

The snowfall is heavy, and he’s stuck inside for the most part, huddled up in front of an old heater and watching Netflix on his laptop, blankets wrapped around him as he shivers despite the measures taken to battle the cold. Winter’s first weeks could be harsh when he was unprepared, and Lance is a _‘just getting by’_ dance student; his career hasn’t begun yet. So, he’s been trapped under an old snuggie and several throws all weekend — teeth chattering and nose raw.

“What are you watching?”

Lance can’t begin to explain how startled he is, Shiro appearing on his bed beside him a foot or so away, long legs stretching over the mattress and wide shoulders pressing against his headboard. He’s lucky he has such a tight hold on his computer, or it surely would be a few hundred dollars worth of repairs he can’t really come up with.

“Jeez, can’t you _warn_ a guy?”

If he is honest, he’s glad for the other’s presence now, because for a being who claims to be the _actual_ cold — he’s a rising heat beneath Lance’s skin, a warm touch against his shoulder as he peeks at the laptop screen.

“I’m sorry,” but, he really isn’t, it’s all too telling by that million-watt smile only contested by his neat, alabaster getup. “I just thought I’d stop by for a visit.”

Lance wants to say he expected him sooner, that he should have come the moment he had the chance, because disappearing as often as he did is difficult to handle; he misses him the second he’s gone.

But.

What right had he over winter?

“It’s a show called _Dancing With The Stars._ I’m a little addicted.”

“Dancing with the stars...” Shiro speaks thoughtfully, looking at the screen where a man in black and woman in red are pulling each other close as a song begins. After a moment, he drags his eyes over to Lance. “You dance, don’t you?”

“I do, but, nothing like this.” He watches for a minute or two as the figures dip into a modern tango, capturing the audience with abrupt, expertly executed movements. Dark, pouty lips press into a thin line as he admires them. “I’m not half as talented.”

Shiro gives him a long look, “but you will be one day.”

Lance laughs at his sincerity, how he doesn’t sugarcoat anything to make him feel better, even though he knows the man has never seen him dance once. He just answers with honesty, and it’s something that the youngest of them never knew he needed.

He turns his head to look at Shiro then, not bothered by their close proximity. The other man is looking at the screen intently and Lance is more than happy to stare at him without shame, full lips and cute nose something he adores silently.

It’s almost startling, how swiftly Shiro moves to jump off of the bed after the song ends and the judging begins, however.

Lance is quick to pause his show, looking up curiously at the other’s spot just across from him, a gloved hand reaching his way. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t comment on the familiarity of their positions, only looks toward him hopefully. “Come here?”

The question is asked in a way that tells him he can’t say _‘no,’_ and Lance closes his laptop, setting it aside and standing from his nest of blankets — blue pajamas not doing much to keep him warm, bare toes curling at the coolness of the floor. He walks forward a pad until he’s in front of Shiro and looks up, feeling a bit embarrassed as the man zeroes in on the printed snowflakes of his nightshirt.

“Okay, I’m here. Now what?”

“Step on my feet.”

“What?” A disbelieving chuckle escapes him, but he’s already moving forward, one foot testing the waters. “Why?”

“For one, the floor is cold and, for _two,_ ” Shiro’s arm surrounds him, clinging to the small of his back as another hand grabs his own, incredibly warm as it entwines with his fingers. He pulls Lance forward, finishing what the dancer started, and keeps him pressed flush to his chest. “It’s easier to hold you this way.”

Lance knows his face runs red at their closeness, and he feels undeniably entranced when he inclines his head and Shiro’s breaths intermingle with his own, the man looking down at him with the gentlest smile. He’s not even sure of what to do when they begin to move, swaying back and forth, coaxing relaxation from Lance’s rigid shoulders; the whole scene is ridiculous and he can’t help but laugh. “Pfft— what are you _doing?_ ”

Shiro only brings him closer, leaning down to press his cheek to Lance’s hair.

“Dancing with the stars.”

He doesn’t want to travel after that.

Lance decidedly goes off to college that year for dance, never once thinking about rolling waves each and every day from morning until night. Leaving New York meant leaving Shiro, and California quickly loses its appeal in comparison to pale, smooth skin and pristine, pearlescent teeth.

He’s compelling in ways Lance can’t explain and all he’s able to think of when he wakes in the morning is the touch of frost on his cheek, or how he used to wish for sunny days before bedtime and now gets a rush when he runs through the snowy streets on his way to his sister’s apartment for their weekly ‘catch up.’

Lance often thinks, if he had known Shiro before their reunion, maybe his first love would have been the snow.

He supposes that his last is the one that really matters anyway.

He can remember Hunk having been disappointed; it was supposed to be them against the world back then, but he quickly warms up to the idea of Lance studying at home when he notices his happiness. And it puts a sad smile on the dancer’s face when one night, his best friend calls and says:

_“Maybe I should have, too. It’s not the same without you.”_

But Lance knows in his heart, that if he had gone, things wouldn’t be the same without _him._

Shiro, despite his title crystallized in freckles of ice, cannot travel beyond the regions bearing the cold. He would have never been able to follow him to Hawaii, and California quickly became a pipe dream.

Lance isn’t bitter about it.

If he and Shiro shared a normal relationship, maybe things would be different, and he’d be able to blame all the traveling he had to miss on deep, dark hues and a laugh like first snow.

Those same eyes and that exact laugh _are_ a part of it, of course, but the decision is his.

Winter has become more important than anything the sun can provide him; it’s stolen kisses and walks in the snowy forest and a body that is inexplicably warm, even when snowflakes fall from its fingertips.

 

**FEBRUARY 13th**

It’s the day before Valentine’s Day when Shiro gives him his heart.

And though he thinks it nothing of coincidence, he’s surprised to find out that it _is,_ the personification of winter himself asking confusedly, “what’s _Valentine’s Day?_ ”

Lance just smiles at the blissful ignorance, realizing that there must be many holidays Shiro is unaware of or thinks little about altogether. He likes this about him and is almost a bit ashamed of all the years he’d worried about not having a valentine, and it makes him nearly giddy as well — knowing he never has to feel that way again.

And it’s when they’re out in the freezing cold at Lance’s favorite park, sitting cross-legged from each other on the marble of a frozen fountain, that he knows something as silly as Valentine’s Day didn’t matter when two people are in love.

The fact that Shiro’s always thinking of him makes it _feel_ like the sickeningly sweet holiday every waking moment.

The older man is wrapped in loose, white clothing, more comfortable than his usual suit — and when asked about the change, he just shrugs, saying it _‘felt like a casual evening.’_ Lance jokes to himself about deities and fashion statements, shaking his head with a look of affection on his face, staring at Shiro’s hands. One, his right, is still hugged in a leather glove, the other not at all bothered by the cold and yet — it’s warm in Lance’s own.

He doesn’t want to point it out, but Shiro looks nervous, cheeks flushed pink and lips pressed thin. And he doesn’t say a word, only reaches out a dressed hand, empty until it glows colorless as it does when he’s showing off his powers; he ends storms as quickly as he begins them, but he doesn’t do such a thing this time.

Instead, Lance watches as the magic stays just inside the other’s palm, a sphere of ice appearing before the wind cuts through it — whittles it down until it becomes a glistening, frozen heart.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so _beautiful._

“What’s this?” Lance can barely contain the wonder in his voice, hands reaching out merely to hover on either side of the shaven masterpiece, exhaling a breath he doesn’t know he has been holding.

“My heart,” Shiro’s words are that of an amused hum, but he can tell he’s cautious, guarded. “It’s my connection to the cold… You must _never_ break it.”

“Seriously?” The grin he answers with is meant to soothe the other’s tension, but he supposes it doesn’t work when the other looks suddenly wary.

“Lance.”

“I’ll take care of it, Shiro.” Cupping his palms around the small heart, he’s startled by its heat — as hot to the touch as Shiro, he thinks — and pulls it close to his own chest. “If it’s a part of you, I’ll never break it. I promise.”

He doesn’t see the end of winter coming then, too wrapped up in everything Shiro is to believe it would ever be over.

The days and weeks fly by, and even though Lance usually can’t wait for the first signs of spring, he feels like he can go without — if just to be able to see the man he loves every day.

February soon becomes March and the both of them can nearly _hear_ the birds singing.

 

**MARCH 2nd**

“When will I see you again?” Lance asks, because he used to find the winter months long, but now — after meeting Shiro again after all of this time — he thinks it can never be long enough. And part of him admits to himself that he’d trade spring and fall and everything in between for a chance to be closer to the man, for what they have to seem less than fleeting.

“The winter will come sooner than you think,” the reassurance is a soft croon in his ear, a lingering touch ghosting along his chest and lips to his temple. Lance can’t help but hate the idea of waking up and being unable to call Shiro’s name just to have him appear seconds later.

He leans back against a wide chest, pouting. “I don’t _want_ you to go.”

“I’ll always come back,” the cold urges. Shiro is always good at going one step further, as if he wants the whole of his being to be realized in every word he speaks. “I am forever.”

“I know, but,” he shouldn’t be so selfish, he knows, but it only makes him wish more that things were different — that Shiro was human or that _he_ was what _winter_ is. He knows he shouldn’t take anything for granted despite his desires, but it’s so hard to care about anything else during the times in which they’re wrapped up solely in each other. “I’ll have to wait an entire year to be with you again.”

Hands just card through his hair, one gentle and soft, the other smooth leather. “Every moment, I will miss you.”

“Where will you go? Now that winter’s ending here?” He grumbles, because he wants to know and because he doesn’t want to mention just how much he’ll long for him.

“To where the snow is needed.”

“It’s needed here!”

“Lance, I’ll come back to you,” Shiro’s voice is a whisper, and he takes Lance’s chin, tilting his head up just enough to press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. “I’ll always come back. But you know my place.”

Turning in the man’s arms, dark hands find the collar of a neat shirt, he kisses him properly — intent on spending the rest of the night lying beside him.

Lance misses him the moment he leaves that spring morning.

 

**SPRING**

He knows Shiro’s place, but he wishes more than anything that it was with _him._

 

**SUMMER**

Hunk invites him to stay in Hawaii for the summer, and Lance can’t refuse; he leaves his home behind, but takes Shiro’s heart with him, and it’s like showing the man the sun for the first time as he holds it up to the light.

 

**AUTUMN**

The year drags by, and Lance occupies himself with dance, progressing in school and doing his best — but Shiro still lingers in the back of his mind, especially when a day is unexpectedly chill in the warmer seasons.

 

**DECEMBER 5th**

His first reunion with Shiro isn’t full of long hugs and even longer kisses as he imagines.

He wakes to a bedroom window caked with frost, and his heater is just barely working. Lance steps out of bed shivering, wrapping his arms around his body in the hopes that he’ll trap the little warmth he has. He expected Shiro to be there the moment he opened his eyes, and after looking around the room curiously, he finds that the man is indeed with him — though not in the way he thought he’d be.

There’s a huddled form in the corner, barely illuminated by the glow of his apple pie candle and it takes Lance rushing over in a panic to realize that it’s Shiro, though he could have guessed. He looks conflicted, as if he’s not sure that he should even look up at him — or _be_ there, for that matter — choosing to stare at the hands lying in his lap in front of him instead.

Lance notices patches of ice like frostbite burned into the skin he can see, and he’s on his knees before the man in an instant.

“Shiro?” He’s careful to press his hands gently to the cold, blue flesh of the other’s cheeks, smooth and glass-like against his fingertips. “How did this happen?”

It’s the first time he’s ever seen _winter_ hesitate, eyes searching the peripherals before looking to Lance himself, seemingly unsure if he should speak or not. Sun-kissed skin contrasts the frosty glow Shiro emanates, and he worries endlessly over him, waiting for any sign that he’s willing to talk at all.

Slowly, however — after moments of silence — he does.

“The Queen… she knows.”

“Queen?”

“Allura.”

Lance has never heard of her; since he’s known the man, it’s never been a name that’s come up. And even so, he wasn’t aware of there being any _queen,_ but it occurs to him then that — if a being like _Shiro_ exists — there must be more of his kind. He just never believed there to be anyone but him pulling the strings of snow and sleet. That there is a hierarchy—

—there’s so much Lance doesn’t know about Shiro’s world.

And seeing him worried, afraid and hurt, only gives Lance the need to ask why and how.

“I don’t understand.”

“She knows — about us.” The way he says it puts a twist in his gut, sharp, vile — and he can barely stand the ominous feeling it gives off like a bad omen. “And she’ll come after me. She’ll come after you.”

“After me?” Lance sits back on his legs, dropping his hands to Shiro’s own between them, squeezing their fingers together; he barely gets a response. “Shiro, what’s going... on?”

Before he can pull the man’s hands to his chest, the other is gone, the corner in which he occupied empty and cold. And when he calls out, uselessly and for whatever reason he pretends makes him feel better, the desolation is more than he can bear.

“Shiro?”

Lance worries for days after the fact, and part of him wonders if he should fear for Shiro’s safety or give him space.

 

**DECEMBER 11th**

The next time his spirit of a boyfriend appears to him, Lance is in his living room, curled up with Veronica’s cat — Azul — while she’s away with friends. The television is playing an old rerun of _A Christmas Story,_ but he can barely look at it. And it’s not until Shiro’s tall body blocks the screen that he realizes the man is even there.

“Shiro!” Lance jumps up so fast from his spot on the couch, Azul practically screeches from being jostled, scurrying quickly beneath the sofa as he makes his way over to the taller man. He’s hesitant to get too close, afraid the other will disappear at any moment. “The other day, what happened?”

It’s unnerving, when Shiro smiles at him, fake and full of dishonesty. “It was nothing, really.”

Lance takes a step back because it hurts; he doesn’t expect this kind of thing from him, the lack of transparency an unbreakable wall between them as he suddenly feels small in comparison to Shiro’s muscular form. “Why are you lying to me?”

He gets no response, no reassurance that everything is okay, no reason why he disappeared so abruptly the day before — only a pathetic shrug of his shoulders and he’s reminded of high school all over again, only this time that sorry look is coming from Shiro instead of a seventeen-year-old Katie Holt, _‘affectionately called Pidge.’_

“Look, I’m here to tell you that I can’t do this anymore. I can’t come and see you.”

“Shiro, no—”

“I just— I have to go — I just needed you to know that this is it.”

Lance hates the words spilling from the older man’s lips like every tear he’s ever shed for people who’ve ever bothered to love him. And he refuses to lie down and take it again, because somewhere in his heart, he knows Shiro doesn’t want for that either.

“Hold on. My magical boyfriend is breaking up with me? Over some… _Allura_ person and he can’t even tell me why?”

The man only shakes his head, as if he’s being the reasonable one, and Lance can hardly stand it. “It’s for your own good.”

“Shut up! You’re not my mother, Shiro. And I’m not just going to let you leave me.” Lance feels the wetness in the corners of his eyes, sees Shiro break at his upset, moving in an instant to thumb along his cheeks as if he wants to catch the tears he refuses to let fall. His own fingers wrap around those strong forearms, blue eyes staring up at the man in a silent plea. “I love you.”

It isn’t how Lance wanted to finally say it, but it’s enough to get Shiro to stay.

The words fall from the other like a house of cards and he relents, tells him of a witch he calls his queen — strong, powerful — the overseer that granted him power, allowed him the heart in which Lance now holds, a life force he swore never to break months ago. He isn’t able to get much more out of him, but Shiro seems calmer, speaks more evenly.

And more importantly, he doesn’t leave.

“She’ll come for us, Lance.”

“Let her come.”

Shiro’s smile is unbelievably warm, as if he hasn’t said a word and hung the moon in the sky instead.

“Hey.” Gloved fingertips find his own and even though the leather is stiff as he thumbs over the back of Lance’s hand, it’s far from the cold shoulder given to him just moments ago. “ _I_ love _you._ ”

Shiro leaves without having broken a heart, whether Lance’s or his own, soft kisses and promises to see each other soon on their lips.

And they do.

Shiro comes back the next night and the next.

Until one night, _she_ comes.

 

**DECEMBER 19th**

It’s just days before Christmas that finds them trekking back to Lance’s home in the middle of the night from their trip down to the frozen lake.

He’d spent the evening teaching Shiro how he likes his presents for his family wrapped, disallowing the man from using magic to paper them up for him, no matter how cool it looked at first glance. It may have taken them far longer than needed until they were finished, but it had been well worth it, and they shared many encouraging kisses along the way.

It was only after they sat in front of the television and drank through several cups of hot cocoa while watching a holiday baking show that he began to feel restless, suggesting they nod to their childhood and walk to the lake just before the forest where they’d met. Shiro had been reluctant at first, but Lance had easily calmed him, convincing them both that they would be perfectly fine.

And, they were.

They are.

The night’s beautiful, the black sky lit with gold stars and the earth illuminated by freshly fallen snow. It’s amazing, how Shiro does so much, though he claims it’s the work of a smaller variety of fay — their very beings called to the tips of his fingers, the smallest of creatures carrying out his icy commands.

Lance has only seen them once, but something tells him that _they_ are the ones bossing Shiro around...

… and it _might_ have just been the whisperings of one.

The night air blows cool against his cheeks and he shivers, Shiro quick to wrap an arm around him, and they feel like a real couple for a split second; he doesn’t even mourn the fact that he can’t bring the man home to meet his family. He’s already been told it’s not possible, but it’s nice, to think that it feels like he _could_ just by walking beside him on the street pressed so close together.

But winter cannot have human connections.

Technically, even Lance himself isn’t allowed.

_It’s…_

“What are you thinking about?” Shiro asks so quietly, Lance almost doesn’t hear him speak, but he’s lucky enough to catch the gist, quick to smile up at him and assure him that nothing is wrong.

“Just thinkin’ about Christmas and stuff.” He shrugs, hooking his arm around the other’s waist. “I have to spend the 24th with my family.”

“Like last year, right?”

“Yeah, but the 25th, I’m all yours.”

Shiro only smiles then, his long white lashes capturing all of Lance’s attention before the other leans down to press a feather-light kiss to his lips.

“Perfect.”

Nothing more is said, because the wind sweeps them back suddenly.

The cold is difficult to brace against at such a high speed, biting their skin so sharply that Lance gasps on impact — reaching up to shield his face. His fingers are on the tacky side of pins and needles, numb and throbbing as he loses touch with Shiro, his warmth no longer enveloping him like an evening by the fire.

He reaches out blindly for any physical sign of the other man, the brush of his hair or the fabric of that ridiculously polished sweater he happens to be wearing; there’s nothing in the palms of his hands and it isn’t until he finally feels his back hit the ground of a snowy sidewalk that Shiro’s face comes into view.

“Lance, are you alright?”

There’s a moment of confusion, and Lance has truthfully never felt so light-headed, not knowing what happened or why — but he keeps his gaze trained on Shiro, who’s helping him sit up and gather his bearings as he kneels down before him. “I think so… what was that?”

Eyes keep solemn to the ground and he doesn’t need an answer then to know the cause, but he gets one anyway. “I’m sure it was her — that it was Allura.”

“Allura,” Lance breathes, sensing Shiro’s panic from hearing the name spoken by someone that isn’t _him._

“We have to get you home, we can’t keep doing this. She’ll hurt you—”

He’s stricken by the way Shiro seems to be frozen in time suddenly, lips parted as though he could continue speaking at any moment; he doesn’t, looking forward with eyes so hollow that Lance can’t help but reach up and grab his face. It scares him, just how cold it feels when he’s usually so very warm, and he tries with all of his might to stop the shaking in his fingers as he pats gently the other’s cheek.

“Shiro?” A beat, and then, two. “Shiro, come on, you have to snap out of it!”

There’s no answer, only the image of two dark hands clawing their way around the man’s broad chest from behind before he disappears into a cloud of frost.

Lance doesn’t understand what he’s seen, doesn’t know what’s going on, or the why or how or what or when — or _anything._ He sits alone in temperatures so frigid, he can feel the ache in his bones, every word of confidence that he’s ever spoken to Shiro melts away into nothingness along with the man he loves. And when he finally has the strength to reach forward, grasping the empty air where _his_ winter had been, the shivering in his body is no longer from the cold.

It’s from anger.

“No… _no._ ” Jumping up from the sidewalk, he looks around frantically, his voice climbing in volume with every word he speaks as each direction leads down another empty road. “No, no, no!”

His body just… moves on its own then.

Lance turns heel and runs back toward the frozen lake, forgetting about going home and lying in bed until the sun comes up. It’s not worth it unless Shiro is lying beside him, wrapped in a shirt too tight for his body because he borrowed it from the dancer’s middle drawer, or pajama pants with cupcakes on them from the nearest department store because Lance thought he looked _‘cute’_ in them.

It isn’t _worth_ it.

He just keeps going steady, retracing their steps until he finally gets to a vast depth of water covered in a sheet of thin ice, not bothering to make the journey around it — slipping and sliding across until he reaches the other side, but not before falling and scraping his knees through his jeans. He fights that battle, because the sooner he crosses the weather-made rink, the closer he’ll be to getting Shiro back.

All he needs to do is make it to the forest.

Because he has to be there; there’s _no_ other place.

He runs deeper than the clearing where they met, further than the frozen brooks and pillowy hills of snow and far into the frigid tundra that lies within. And he doesn’t know where he’s going, but Lance doesn’t care, because wherever it is happens to be so _right —_ he can feel it.

It isn’t much longer until the dense, dead foliage clears into an endless expanse of white; the floor is a thick sheet of glass, and there’s a woman there waiting. He can only see long curls of frosted locks and the glittering trails of her dress, but it’s enough for him to put two and two together.

Because, though he’s never come to face her, he knows with all his heart that it’s Allura.

It takes a moment, but she turns to him, eyes a pupiless, ethereal glow the likeness of glittering snowflakes and he somehow believes that he should feel lucky to be so close to a being so beautifully mystical; her dark skin contrasts the endless alabaster around her, lips plush and red as ivory spindles a lithe body in waves.

But he can’t help but feel contempt.

She’s Shiro’s curse, she _has_ to be, holding him hostage under her thumb like he hasn’t a purpose or mind of his own. He does, though, _did —_ and Lance will do anything to make such a thing true again.

The queen looks to him in wonder, though her expression begs neutrality. He thinks it’s fitting, because deities don’t feel, or so they aren't supposed to. It only makes him angrier than he already is, how she stands like she’s been _waiting_ for him. And, of course she has, if she’s known about him so much longer than he’s known of her.

“Where _is_ he?” He nearly demands it, hands curled into fists, sun-kissed skin stark white at the knuckles as he dares to step closer.

Allura regards him with a tilt of her head then, lifting a hand with a grace he’s never seen even Shiro pull off. Frostbitten fingernails extend toward him, and her every breath is the piercing of an icicle through the armor of his ribcage. “I answer not to humans.”

Lance shivers at the sound of her voice — chilling, melodic, sleep-inducing — but he’s wide awake.

“Well, you’re gonna answer to me.” Frantically, he starts toward her, bent on destruction, bent on revenge and anything to make himself feel like the hero. But she’s too swift, expelling him with a snap of her fingers and a wind so cold, his back against the ground cannot even compare to the chattering of his teeth. Still, he doesn’t let it drive him off, and he stands despite the ache in his limbs from the frozen snow.

He tries again, running toward her with a cry, lifting his arms to strike her as if he could beat her with the sharp sting of his fingers alone. Her powers prove far too great, and they tear him down again and again.

And again and again.

Lance is persistent if anything, and it isn’t until he’s down on his knees that he feels his will waver, and he wonders if it’s her stare — cold, unseeing, lifeless.

“Give him back!” His voice cracks, pipes dry from the icy air, and though he wants it to sound like a demand — he knows it’s a weak plea rattling from a brittle chest as he tries to stand. Allura looks to him, unmoved, and he knows it’s for nothing. “Give him back.”

“He belongs to me.” Her movements are like a dance, flowing with the tides of her dress as she sweeps Lance off of his feet with a cold wave of snow, watching as he hits the ground and shudders a fit of coughs until his lungs can barely heave another gasp.

“He doesn’t belong to anyone!” He sucks in dry air, but it doesn’t help him sound any more convincing. “Let him go!”

His screams seem to intrigue her, and there’s a change in expression he never thought he would see, her full lips down turning ever so slightly. She floats toward him silently, not making a single crunch in the snow, before standing at his fallen form — placing a tender hand at the crown of his head; he doesn’t move, fear overtakes him.

“Sleep child,” Allura speaks like a lullaby, quietly, and Lance can feel himself slowing down — steadily losing consciousness, though he tries his best to hold on. “You know nothing of what you ask and will gain not in which you seek.”

And the world goes black.

 

**DECEMBER 20th**

When Lance wakes, he’s staring at his bedroom ceiling, the smell of the cinnamon pine candle he likes wafting through the air, giving him the warmth of home.

Why was he _here?_

His mouth feels dry, eyes bleary as he blinks away the sleep, attention drawn to the chill of night — and he turns his head to the open window, curtains blowing in the wind.

That’s when it all comes back.

Allura. _Shiro._

Being _there_ and then home.

_Nothing makes sense._

He sits up frantically, looking around for any sign of ‘all of winter,’ hopping out of bed and calling out with a whisper in the dark.

“Shiro?”

The glass of the drawn window is a sheet of frost, and Lance stares at it too closely, waiting for minutes on end for a smoke signal — for _anything._ And stepping forward, his eyes narrow as a spot of moisture eats away at the sleet, widening only when it becomes the imprint of a hand on the glass. He rushes to it, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he places his hand along the ghost of a wide palm. “Shiro?”

There’s no response, and Lance is quick to pull away and run for the small box on his dresser that contains the man’s snowy heart, holding it in his hands as if it had all the answers. It’s still warm, still beating beneath his fingertips, weak and almost completely undetectable. Pulling it close to his chest, he does the only thing that _does_ makes sense.

He tugs on his boots and coat, running toward the forest once more, intent on finding Shiro in the same spot where they’d met as children; it’s his last chance, his only chance, and he’s sure that if magic really exists that it’ll lead Lance back to him.

It is far too early in the morning to be up, he notices; the sun hasn’t even risen, but he doesn’t care.

He _has_ to find Shiro.

Gripping the heart in his hands, he sprints faster down the empty sidewalk, spotting the way the sleet on the city streets begins melting, which is only cause for him to run until his legs ache, because it occurs to him that—

Winter is disappearing before his very eyes.

When he reaches the forest, the trees show green like a reminder that the cold doesn’t _have_ to exist, and once he finds the clearing — the icy lake rolls in waves once more, flowers are in bloom, and the cold is chased away by the arrival of dawn.

"Shiro?"

Lance’s heart breaks, because something tells him that — even if it snows every December day next year — he’s never going to see _his_ winter again.

The thought only makes him upset, looking to the heart in his palm, fragile and growing colder by the second. It doesn’t melt still, and he doesn’t know what to make of it, but he’s mad at everything then, because why didn’t Shiro tell him what was going on before everything became so dangerous? Why did he keep it from him, like he wouldn’t understand, until he pried it from his hands?

Why did he let Lance fall in love with him?

Curling his fist tightly around the artifact, he acts before he thinks, throwing the heart to the ground — immediately regretful as it shatters on the ground.

“No!”

It’s too late, however, because as he tries to pick the pieces up — they melt into the earth, and he’s lost the only connection he has left to the one he loves. Everything he had to remember him by, the one thing that could have possibly told him what he needs to know, is gone.

Lance wants to cry, so he does, dropping to the grass and drawing his knees to his chest, head falling to them as he weeps. He’s never felt so empty in his life, and if he had a ticket to California, he’s almost sure he would take it just to get away from the pain of having everything stolen from him before he could even blink.

“Are you out here alone?”

His body goes rigid at the voice, familiar and warm, but he tries not to hope. Like everything regarding Lance, hope does get the better of him, and he pulls his eyes from the damp fabric of his pants to find an outstretched hand before him — raised scars surfacing along nearly every patch of skin. His gaze travels upward along biceps hugged by a black t-shirt, falling into ebony locks only accented by a shock of white hair.

Lance finally reaches his eyes, the tears once drying only breaking through the ducts again at the sight of such a warm expression. It disarms him in every way.

“Shiro.” His voice cracks painfully as he reaches for the man’s hand, lifting him up and into his arms. And he holds tightly to the other just in case he disappears, grasping his shoulders as he cries into his chest, and Shiro only pulls him closer. It nearly hurts too much to pull away, but he does if just to have a look at the other’s face — reaching up to cup his cheek. “How? I thought she took you away again.”

“You broke the spell,” he says simply.

“Spell?”

For a long moment, it’s quiet. Shiro’s hold on him slackens and he wants to grab those hands and pull them back around his body himself, but he doesn’t. Instead, he opts for waiting patiently as the man gathers his bearings; he knows of Shiro’s servitude to Allura, how she reigns above him, but he speaks as though he’s been cast a bad break instead of having simply broken the rules.

It takes longer than Lance expects for him to come around, but he holds on for the confirmation that he’s real and not some dream that’s going to be shattered at any moment.

“I’d forgotten for so long until now, how I… belonged to her. It was part of a contract.” He says slowly, quietly, and Lance realizes just how silent everything else is around them to be able to hear a whisper that clearly. “I was human once, but I was dying, and in a sick way — she saved me. But, I opposed her anyway, I spent time with a human as a child so soon after my rebirth. I let you into my world, I showed you things no one was supposed to know.”

Human.

Lance thinks back to that moment when Shiro had run to him in fear — more a man than he had ever seen him — every instance in which he held back from ‘saying too much.’ He remembers being a child, always there in the forest, waiting for him, teaching him things. He just didn’t imagine that there could be anyone more powerful than the man in front of him, then _all_ of winter.

But, Shiro is only human.

Looking to the other’s right arm grasped in his hand and then, to the angry healed gash across his face, he realizes they weren’t there the first time they met so many years ago — and during the days they were together now, he’s used to seeing Shiro in tight, white gloves.

Lance knew with his entire being that it was _her_ doing.

“Then this is…” He thumbs along the scars of the man’s arm before reaching up to brush lightly the bridge of his nose, “and this, Shiro?”

“I gave you my heart so I would _always_ be with you.” Shiro’s hands move to hold his face, pressing their foreheads together with a gentle bump. “But you’ve had it for so much longer than just a single winter.”

Lance can’t imagine the cruelty, knowing that affections for _him_ were cause for such punishment, and he thinks — how _awful_ it is that this is the way of the world, even in the most beautiful, magical of realms.

“You were a _child._ ”

“It didn’t matter,” he whispers, “it doesn’t matter.”

“She took you away from me. That will always matter.” Lance’s hands travel upward and around the back of Shiro’s neck, rubbing gentle circles with his fingertips.

“You took me away from _her,_ ” he echoes, “with you, I had a place to escape to.”

“You? Were _there?_ ” It’s an absurd thought, someone as big and brawn as Shiro residing in a small heart-cicle, but for what it’s worth — a lot of absurd things have happened to him over the course of the year, and he doesn’t want it any other way.

“Yes.”

“But you’re not anymore.”

“No, and I can’t use my magic anymore either. I’m _truly_ free.” Shiro smiles then, as if the admittance brings him so much joy, he can barely contain it. He squeezes Lance in his arms. “And it’s because you broke my heart.” 

The guilt Lance feels makes his chest heavy with the reminder of his promise, and he’s so desperately conflicted over whether he should be happy he did it or not. “I’m sorry, I— I didn’t mean to!”

“It was the only thing she couldn’t touch. I just didn’t think breaking it would release me, or that it was so powerful.” His traces a gentle trail across the dancer’s cheek. “That’s what saved me — _you_ are what saved me.”

His breath catches from the man’s words, a line from a fairytale if there ever was one, and his fingertips grasp at the other’s shirt.

“I’m just glad you’re back.” Lance looks up at Shiro with a barely there smile, eyes full with his affections, only pulling away when the touch of wintry flakes tickles his nose. He looks up to the sky, realizing that it’s snowing, and he feels as relieved as he is afraid. “You won’t disappear with the snow again, will you? She won’t come back again, right?”

He looks back at the man in front of him with a frown, but only finds that he’s smiling.

“Nothing can take me away. I came back to you, and with you, I’ll stay.” Dark eyes set their sights on him, and he feels his heart flutter. “I know my place.”

Lance says nothing more, only grabs Shiro’s handsome face and pulls him down to meet him halfway.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me on [Tumblr](https://birdsandivory.tumblr.com)!


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